


Five

by OctarineSparks



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Injury, M/M, sad ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1507913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never too late to say what you feel. And sometimes it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five

Sherlock is limping on a twisted ankle, his hurried, loping gait not nearly quick enough to escape the bullet that is fired at his retreating back. It tears through his shoulder in white hot fury, and he cries out, falling to the ground. 

John calls his name, and Sherlock can hear the sound of three retaliatory shots. Though they are fired in panic, he notes with a shadow of misplaced pride that at least one of them hits their mark. He hears the strangled shout of his attacker, cut short as blood bubbles from the entry wound in his neck. 

He hears the muffled thud as John drops to his knees beside him, and he can feel John's hand at his shoulder, working it free from his coat. His vision has gone dark as blood loss takes hold, and he is falling, down into a spiralling blackness he fears he will never escape. 

"Sherlock, Sherlock, look at me."

John's words are a prayer, but not one this mortal God can answer as the darkness wraps it's long, cold fingers around his brilliant mind. It tells him to sleep, and he so badly wants to give in. But then John's voice penetrates the dark, urging him to stay awake, to live. 

"An ambulance is coming. Jesus, Sherlock, hold on."

It's just a bullet wound in the shoulder. John survived much the same. He's going to be ok. 

He coughs, and it hurts right down to his very soul. His shoulder screams and he thanks whoever he can that he is still able to feel it. A long way from dead yet. 

"Hold still."

Sherlock can't do much else as John's strong hands and solid weight press down on him. The wound protests, albeit feebly this time, and his head is starting to ache. He is so damn tired. 

"It's too much."

Too much blood. Yes. He knows. He can feel it, sticky and warm, and everywhere. His fevered mind is convinced that it glows with a golden light as it ebbs out of him. His life force, draining away. 

"Sherlock."

The name is spoken quietly, desperately. Sherlock thinks he must be dying, then. 

"Jo..."

"Don't speak."

But he must. He has to. There is still so much left to say. 

"This is all my fault."

Five simple words that seem to galvanise Sherlock right down to his very core. This could never be John's fault. John saved his life. He would never be the reason it was taken away. 

The pain is fading, and it's not a good thing. He's slipping away. He can almost feel his body shutting down, like parts of him are being packed away, to be hidden in a dusty attic and never used again. 

His heart beats still, pumping yet more blood from him. Inching him closer to death and yet the only reason he is still alive. 

Well, that and...

"John."

"I said don't speak."

John's voice is angry and choked all at once. He's angry at himself, he's crying for Sherlock. Sherlock wants to tell him to stop, but he's certain now that he has but one last sentence in him, and he would never use it to tell John to stop. 

"John. I..."

I what?

"I lo..."

The darkness is overwhelming, the urge to sleep much the same. What would it change, anyway? To say that which he knew could never be spoken, to a man who could face anything but the responsibility of holding someone else's broken heart in his hands. 

"Ssh now, Sherlock."

He can't hear anything at all except John's words. He could be anywhere, he could be at home. He could be entangled in John, and John is the one urging him to rest. It's a big day tomorrow. 

"I love you."

He doesn't feel himself being loaded into the ambulance. Doesn't feel it as surgeons tear into his well abused body, hunting for the tiny piece of metal that has caused him to come undone. Packets and packets of another person's blood are spilled into him, selflessly given, greedily received. 

John Watson stands on the other side of the doors, lost in his own world of silence and darkness. There is still so much to say. 

I know. 

I've always known. 

He walks the corridor in a small circle. One foot in front of the other, one regret before the next. Like a broken tooth, Sherlock's heart had been a troubling thing, getting worse everyday but he was too scared to acknowledge just how much it was starting to hurt. 

I couldn't have missed it. 

The way you look at me sometimes. 

A doctor bursts through the doors but she says nothing, just strides past John with a purpose in mind. He wants to scream at her, demand she get back in there and finish saving Sherlock's life. 

A man like you. 

I didn't know you could. 

He let's his mind drift to other times, cosy and warm and safe in the curious little home they had built for themselves. He's not going to let them become memories of a man he used to know. 

You shouldn't have said anything. 

You should have saved your strength. 

He wants to look through the small window, wants to watch as Sherlock is slowly brought back from the brink, but he doesn't know how he will handle it if that isn't what he sees. He doubts his heart will handle watching Sherlock die again. It certainly hates the idea of never seeing him live. 

Am I supposed to say it back?

Should I have? In case you don't make it?

He presses his fingertips to the doors, his head bowed. He can faintly hear the steady beep of the monitor, counting out another second in which Sherlock is still alive. One, I'm sorry. Two, please don't die. 

Three, it was always you. 

Four, I love you. 

He closes his eyes, and waits for number five.


End file.
